


If People were Drinks, You'd be a Shot of Fireball

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Drinking, Kinktober 2019, Mutual Pining, Mutual Pining But They Don't Know That, Post-Canon, Post-Canon - Aged Up Characters, Pre-Relationship, Shotgunning, Vomiting, Vomiting Only Occurs Once And Is Handled As Vaguely As Possible, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 13:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: "We should go drinking to celebrate," Terushima says, because that's always his go to celebration idea."No," Shirabu says."I'm game," Futakuchi agrees."No.""It could be fun," Ennoshita says, and Shirabu feels the control of this situation disintegrating. He looks to Akaashi for help, but one glance at the bags under his eyes and the haggardness of his shoulders tells him that Akaashi needs a drink more than any of them.Before he can escape, Ennoshita and Yahaba clap him on the back. "You're coming with us."He's doomed.





	If People were Drinks, You'd be a Shot of Fireball

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 19 - Prompt: Shotgunning

A familiar song starts. The lights change to electric blue, coloring his water like the ocean. Just as Shirabu recognizes the tune, the lyrics start, reminding him that he hates this song. His headache pounds.

“Wanna dance?” A voice slurs.

“No.” Scrolling through his phone, he pointedly ignores them until they leave. For good measure, he continues to scroll after they’re gone, clearing out his Discord muted messages without reading any of them. He doesn’t get why they need a captains’ server, nor does he get the reason behind the Shiratorizawa server that Tendou and Taichi fill with memes every day at one a.m.

A boy smashes into the bar. His face hits the countertop, and he tries to play it off by sliding into the barstool, only to fall on the floor flat on his rear.

Shirabu sighs. “Tequila?”

Yahaba throws his arms wide, smacking his hand against the bottom of the bar. “Tequila!” He does a tiny dance. “I love this song.”

“It’s not playing right now.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shirabu says, “You agreed never to touch tequila again after you put an ice cream cake in Akaashi’s oven.”

“I”—Yahaba wobbles to his feet. The sentence continues, but the words slur into an incomprehensible mess that Shirabu can only assume is some kind of pathetic excuse for his actions. The lights give his hair a blue halo. As he stumbles closer, Shirabu notices a sash tied around his chest.

“What’s that?”

Yahaba looks down, frowning. “I dunno.”

“It says champion.” Shirabu steeples his hands. “Tell me you didn’t do the shots challenge.”

“I ‘idn’t do th’ shots challen… challgen…”

Shirabu holds up his hand. “Stop.”

The bartender offers him a sympathetic smile. “He won by a landslide.”

“You got pretty eyes.” Yahaba sighs. “Do ya see ghosts?”

Shaking their head, they move to refill another person’s glass.

Shirabu checks the time on his phone. It’s officially late enough for him to duck out of this awful social situation, but he has a new problem on his hands. A 156-centimeter-tall problem named Yahaba.

Opening up the Discord server again, he searches for who Yahaba’s designated buddy of the night is. Ennoshita should have been assigned to Terushima, since he’s the only one scary enough to control Terushima without abandoning him in a nearby park. Akaashi on the other hand normally paired with Futakuchi due to his amazing ability to handle both the cold, sarcastic sober Futakuchi and the clingy, emotional drunk Futakuchi. That just left Yamamoto.

Yamamoto, Shirabu realizes with cold dread, who did not come because he stayed home to take care of a sick Kenma.

“Ah hell.” Shirabu was supposed to be his babysitter. Surrounded by loud music and even louder drunks, he’d forgotten that he had responsibilities beyond keeping his headache from becoming a migraine.

He glances at Yahaba, his eyes widening. A row of shots sits neatly in front of him. In increasing horror, he watches Yahaba gun them down as a crowd cheers. Baileys drips down his chin.

Shirabu grabs the entire container of napkins, and—torn between cleaning him up and beating him over the head with it—he shoves a handful of napkins into his face. “Bad. Bad Yahaba.” He tries to clean the stains off his shirt to no avail. It will have to be burned.

Yahaba’s fingers slide into Shirabu’s hair. He smiles at him with all the common sense of a housefly. “You’re so nice.”

“Don’t touch me. You’re sticky.” Shirabu smacks his hand away.

“Shirabu, wait.” He grips his shoulders. “I learned somethin’.”

“What?”

He waves his arms suddenly, attracting the attention of the bartender. “I need a bear.”

“You mean beer?” he asks, already sliding a can across the counter.

“That is the last thing you need,” Shirabu hisses. Before he can grab it, Yahaba snatches it to his chest.

“Wait.” He looks around, as if making sure that they are alone is a club full of people. “Wait,” he whispers. Carefully, he sets down the can as if it were a living creature, patting the top of it when it doesn’t miraculously sprout legs and run away. “A girl showed me this. She had blue hair.”

“Blue hair?”

He nods, face serious. “She said she use’ to be Clean’o’patra.” He digs through his pocket.

“Cleopatra,” Shirabu corrects. “What are you—”

Pulling out a knife, he stabs the side of the can. Beer pours out, and he lifts it to his mouth, trying to drink it before it can spill all over him.

Shirabu stands. He’s never wanted to murder a queen of Egypt before, and it’s better that he leaves now before he gets the chance. Stealing a handful of napkins, he grabs Yahaba’s arm and yanks him towards the exit, mumbling for the bartender to add the drinks to his ever-growing tab that the other former captains will absolutely be paying off for him.

“Where’re we goin’?” Yahaba drags his feet.

“Home.”

“But I’m hungry,” he whines.

“You have food at home.” Shirabu tugs, but Yahaba plants his feet, refusing to move.

“I’m hungry,” Yahaba repeats. “I haven’t eaten today.”

“You? What?” Shirabu drags his hand down his face. How did he get stuck with such a problem child? He needs to get Yahaba back to his house before he starts throwing up, but if he hasn’t eaten, there’s no way they’ll make it in time. He doesn’t know how Yahaba is still standing at this point. With renewed strength, he pulls him outside. “There’s a McDonalds down the road.”

“’Hat’s too far.” Yahaba wrinkles his nose. “I’ll drive.”

“You have no car.” Shirabu takes a deep breath. If he punches Yahaba, he’ll be too drunk to feel it; somehow, this revelation only fuels Shirabu’s desire to hit him.

Yahaba slings his arm around Shirabu’s neck. He nearly collapses on Shirabu’s shoulder, and he struggles to keep them both upright. “You’re heavy.”

“Some’un stole my car, bro.” His breath warms Shirabu’s ear. He tries not to shiver.

Shirabu labors down the sidewalk, nearly falling when Yahaba points out a butterfly that is actually an empty potato chip bag. Frost covers the ground. Shirabu’s shoes slip. Winter’s chill slices through his jacket, deep into his bones, but Yahaba radiates heat like a furnace, warming his shoulders, his side.

Slowly, the McDonalds comes within reach. Yahaba pushes on the door labeled “pull.”

Shirabu opens the door. Hot air blasts his face, making him wish he wore a scarf. Dragging Yahaba to the nearest booth, he shoves him in one side and sits down across from him.

“I want pancakes.” He picks up a drink menu, which Shirabu quickly snatches out of his hands.

“It’s one a.m.,” Shirabu says. Right on cue, his phone lights up with the first of Tendou’s memes. Ignoring him, he moves to the captains’ server and messages the others that they’ve left for the night.

Yahaba slams his hands against the table. “Pancakes.”

The one lonely worker behind the register shrugs. “We serve breakfast twenty-four hours.” Under his breath, he mumbles, “Unfortunately.”

Shirabu lets out a sigh of relief. “There. You’re getting your pancakes.”

“Yay.” Yahaba wiggles out of the booth. He stumbles over his feet, his hip bumping the table, and collapses onto the seat next to Shirabu. “You’re so cool.”

Shirabu pushes him back. “You smell.”

Unperturbed, Yahaba snuggles into Shirabu’s side. He reeks of liquor and sweat. Body glitter sparkles along his cheeks. Shirabu is certain he hadn’t been wearing that when he arrived at the club, but the thought drifts away as Yahaba presses their foreheads together. “I love you.”

Shirabu’s heart stops. He breathes in sharply. Something stirs in chest, but he stamps down on the feeling. “You’re drunk,” he snaps, pushing Yahaba away again. “Haven’t you heard of personal space?”

“Space.” Yahaba sulks. He lays his head down on the table. “I don’t like space.”

The server drops a tray of pancakes down in front of him along with three water bottles. He taps the side of his head and says, “Aspirin and Gatorade. He’s going to need it.”

Shirabu smiles spitefully. “I’m looking forward to this hangover.”

Yahaba makes a noise of protest deep in his throat. Sitting up, he reaches for a knife.

Shirabu grabs the knife. The last thing he needs is a bleeding Yahaba, or worse, a replay of the beer incident. Pulling the tray closer, he cuts the pancakes up into small squares and pretends they’re the reason he’s in this mess. Finished, he cringes in horror at the amount of syrup Yahaba pours on them.

His phone lights up, this time not with a meme, but a reply. Shirabu scans through a few missed messages. Futakuchi entered the shots challenge with Yahaba and passed out in the men’s restroom, per Akaashi’s update. Ennoshita begs him to take Futakuchi home. A picture appears. Through the blurry lighting, Shirabu makes out Terushima taking a selfie with Futakuchi, his face covered in drawings.

At the top of the thread, Ennoshita asked if Shirabu is okay.

The answer is no, but not the kind of no Ennoshita would interpret it as. He’s alive and okay and not following some guy to a van under the promise of getting to see some puppies. Physically, he’s fine. Mentally, not so much. He casts a sidelong glance at Yahaba. Maple syrup drips down his chin.

“You’re hopeless,” Shirabu mumbles, not sure if he’s referring to Yahaba or himself. He doesn’t understand why it has to be him. Why of all the people he could develop an irritating crush on, it had to be this idiot. More importantly, he wonders how he got roped into babysitting him. What he wouldn’t give to trade places with Akaashi.

A fork hovers in front his face, pancake bumping his lips. Yahaba squints at him. “Say, ‘ah.’”

“I’m not eating your pancakes.”

Yahaba waves the fork around like it’s an airplane veering wildly out of control. “Open up.”

Shirabu takes the fork from him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you.” Yahaba searches for the fork. Unable to find it, he tries to get a piece of pancake on his spoon, but he holds it backwards.

Biting down on a smile, Shirabu holds the fork up in front of his mouth. “Take care of yourself.”

Yahaba’s eyes light up, and he bites the pancake off the fork. “I love you.”

“You shouldn’t say that so carelessly.” He places the fork in Yahaba’s hand, curling his fingers around it. “People will get the wrong idea.” _Shirabu_ will get the wrong idea. Looking away, he says, “Being drunk off your ass isn’t an excuse.”

“But I mean it,” Yahaba insists.

Picking up a napkin, Shirabu pours a little water on it and uses it to dab the syrup off Yahaba’s face. “I can’t believe you when you won’t even remember any of this tomorrow.” Tilting his chin up, he makes sure to get the leftover beer residue off his jaw.

Yahaba catches his hand. “I never rem’ber tomorrow.” He kisses Shirabu’s fingers, sloppy but gentle. Giggling, he mumbles, “Never remember. That rhymes.”

“Idiot,” Shirabu says fondly. He pulls his hand away, despite Yahaba’s attempt to stop him. “Akaashi will watch you next time Yamamoto stays home.”

Yahaba frowns, his brows drawing together. “But I want you.”

“Yahaba,” he warns.

His warning sinks within the alcohol flooding Yahaba’s mind, never able to reach his brain. The pancakes have sobered him a tiny bit, but he sways when he turns to Shirabu, and when he tries to push their foreheads together, he nearly falls, his head bumping into Shirabu’s chest instead. “I hate”—he hiccups—“that you sit out all the time. I wanna spend time ‘ith you.”

“Yahaba,” he says, but the warning loses its hard edge.

“I’ll will remember,” he promises. “I’m gonna remember, so tha’ you’ll believe me.”

Shirabu sighs. Carefully, he allows himself to stroke Yahaba’s hair. “Alcohol doesn’t work that way.”

“I’ll make it work.”

“So stubborn.” Shirabu smiles.

Sitting up, Yahaba examines his arms. “I’m sunburned? Damn, I should’a worn sunscreen.” A strange expression crosses his face. “Shirabu?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise you won’t hate me?”

“Oh hell.” Wiggling out of Yahaba’s grip, he jumps out of the booth. Yahaba covers his mouth with his hands. Dragging him behind him, Shirabu slams open the restroom door and pushes him in front of the trashcan just in time.

“Are you mad?” Yahaba asks. He hugs the trashcan to his chest, his voice soft and miserable.

“No.” Shirabu rubs his back. He’s going to need more napkins, but at least he within reach of a sink now.

From the register, the worker shouts, “You still have to pay for the pancakes.”

“You ready to go to your place,” Shirabu asks, “or do you need a minute?”

“I’m okay,” Yahaba says, looking very far from okay. “Will you stay over?”

Shirabu helps him stand. “Sure.” He knows Yahaba doesn’t have a spare futon in his dorm, but he doubts either of them will get much sleep now that he’s reached this point. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises.


End file.
